Creature of the Night
by gyldedfynix
Summary: Anders visits Hawke against his better judgment, and fights to keep control of his alter ego.  Everything is not at peace, and will soon shift one way or another.


_You should not be doing this._

"Shut up," I swear softly.

_He is just going to leave you. You are not worthy._

I walk faster. The door will be open. I need it to be open.

_You are obsessed._

"I know," I whisper.

_This is the end of you._

* * *

><p>"I wasn't sure you'd come," Hawke says as I enter the room. "I was about to go looking for you."<p>

"I shouldn't be here." I turn.

No, that is Justice talking. I want to be here-_have_-to be here. For him. Not just for him, but also me. I have to know.

Lips are on mine, the sweet tongue of their owner caressing my own, inviting entry. My hands find the small of Hawke's back and press against him, wanting to feel all of him.

_He will leave you when he finds out what you are doing._

Anger flares, and I break the embrace. I turn away and close my eyes, willing the spirit within to quell. I am losing control more often. I can't contain my emotions-chain them down. I can feel the spirit fighting to take over, to turn me into the abomination that destroys everything in its path for vengeance. It would destroy Hawke if I let it.

Hands are on my shoulders, massaging them and a voice is speaking softly in my ear. It is calming, soothing. I am lost in it.

_You are weak._

I turn then, forcing myself against him; his hands work quickly to relieve me of my clothes. I return the favor eagerly, pushing us towards the bed in the process. He tastes sweet, intoxicating, dangerous. The hands that run along my back grope and yearn for more contact. My mind floods with the thought of him, of what we would share.

Our robes are on the floor, scattered like an afterthought. We writhe on the bed, wrenching control from each other every few minutes. Short, quick gasps sound as delicate nerves are teased and become excited. A low grown faintly resembling our lover's name emits from us as we reach our climaxes. Peace, at last.

The nothingness that follows in my mind is being quickly overtaken by the force I had hoped to overcome in the act. I am losing. The blood in my veins flows quickly, chemicals released in the past few minutes working against me. The double-edged sword of losing consciousness is now fully apparent to both me and Justice. Dread mixed with ecstasy washes over me as Hawke settles against me, my arm around his waist. The world grows dim.

_You have lost._

* * *

><p>The ceiling. No. There was a warmth next to him that should not be. He had done it. This was wrong. This was a distraction that could not survive.<p>

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and rose. The blue glow radiating from his body and eyes lit the room just enough so that he could see. Gathering the strewn clothes from the ground, he dressed quickly. Two staves leaned against the wall, almost identical, but different. One had the nicks and cuts of a close-range caster, a brawler; the other was pristine. Simple. He idolized the staves he received; he babied them. Fool. A weapon was only as good as its practicality. A sword of gold may shine brightly, but it would not fell foes as well as one of steel.

He picked it up, turning the wooden staff in his hands, and scoffed at the beauty of the unmarred thing. The knowledge of his mind came to the forefront, offering power and spells. He must know. He walked out the door of the room, and out of the house. The night air tingled on his skin, questioning his presence in the small hours of the night.

Hightown was a sham. The dealings that went on behind closed doors were just as bad-or worse-than those that happened in full view in the lower parts of town. No light shone in the dark recesses of the rich's property; it was no fault of the poor that they had no light in the first place. The rich took and stole, bribed and instead offered the penniless who had no other recourse than to sell each other out to survive. The underground had told him of a noble who did such. The fact that he was already here was fortuitous, and for a moment, he appreciated the need to satisfy the desire for the other man.

The door was in front of him then, his thoughts carrying him to the spot without the majority of his mind noticing. His deft fingers worked the lock open, and he entered. No guards were posted. Senseless men put their faith in locksmiths. Even a strong door could be broken. Impractical fools. He stalked across the foyer and up the left side of the double stairs. Winding his way through the close passages, he encountered no foes. Barely a sound was in the house, save his own quiet footfalls. At last, he reached the apex and the bedrooms. Only the lord and lady were left of the house; the children were all grown and off repeating their elder's mistakes.

A letter was on the desk. Meredith had such messy penmanship for one so outwardly controlling. Magisterial charlatan. She offered favor to the rich in return for information and passageways underneath the city. He smiled, then, glad at his chance to rid the world of one more pretender. He lifted his staff as he slowly strode towards the slumbering pair. He glowed brightly, now unafraid of discovery. No more would suffer at their hand. He pointed his staff at them, and smiled.

* * *

><p>My eyes hurt. My body aches. It is morning, and soft sheets rub against my bare skin. My coming to Hawke the night before slowly filters into my mind. I look, unbelievingly, and he is by my side, sleeping peacefully. I had dreamt so many times... He groans and turns, aware of my shifting. He looks at me, smiling, and I return the favor. I bend my head towards his, gently kissing him. I linger, drinking in his warmth and happiness. His hands are in my unbound hair, drawing out their lengths, tingling my scalp. I laugh.<p>

"I love you," I say, a wave of anxiousness and worry releases as soon as the words leave my lips. He looks at me and smiles again. "Every night I wake aching for you; it's all too surreal that you are by my side this morning instead of the dirt and muck of Darktown," I sigh, and continue, my voice barely above a whisper. "I love you."

His eyes narrow, and a small frown graces his brow, "Want a sandwich?"

I laugh again as my stomach voices its emptiness. "The romantic poets of the ages have a new muse." He kisses me again, returning my proffered feelings in a way I know that he could never voice. I answer his questioning eyes with a nod. He rolls away from me then, searching for pants to cover him in his newfound quest for food. As he leaves, I watch him, and my mind fills with recollections and ghostly memories of his touch. I shudder, and move to the edge of the bed, looking for my robes. My eye catches the space to the left of the door. Our staves rest there, against the wall, crossed. I get up, and inspect mine more closely, dubious of my first glance's deduction. I hold it up, and my heart sinks.

A single, black scorch mark glares at me from the otherwise perfect surface. It is deliberate, resolute, and by my own hand. I have lost.


End file.
